


Discovery Service

by JollyRogue



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: (almost) everyone is saved, Alcohol Withdrawal, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, SMUT AT LAST, all aboard the train to sappytown, cheesy warship analogies, fix-it AU, potentially illegal amounts of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-07-10 14:29:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15951263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JollyRogue/pseuds/JollyRogue
Summary: Thomas Jopson and Francis Crozier have grown very close on the Franklin Expedition. What future awaits them on their return to London?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning** :  
> Please be advised that each chapter of this story contains 350% of your DFA (Daily Fluff Allowance) and that the author cannot be held responsible for cavities or emotional turmoil caused by excess consumption of fluff.  
> In moderation, fluff can be part of a healthy diet.  
> Consume fluff safely and responsibly.

 

Thomas Jopson heaved a sigh of exhaustion.

He had lost track of the time he'd spent taking care of Captain Crozier through those awful withdrawal agonies, allowing himself a break for eating or sleeping only when Dr Macdonald promised to watch over the captain in his place. Macdonald, too, was concerned. Fever and ague overran the captain, he was hardly able to sleep yet not always in a conscious state, and the rare instances when he could bring himself to eat something were usually followed by an inability to keep the food within his stomach. Tirelessly, Jopson had applied poultices to bring the fever down, cleaned up vomit, and administered small sips of whiskey under the doctor's strict watch.

 

For now, Captain Crozier appeared to be through the worst of it. He slept peacefully, curled up on his side (this position being an important one, Dr Macdonald had explained, when a patient was at risk for vomiting), his graying ginger locks still matted with the sweat of a fever that, fortunately, was abating. The expression on his weathered face, Jopson noted, looked more gentle and relaxed than in the days before.

 

Jopson rubbed his eyes. He had meant to catch a nap, but found it hard to tear himself away from the sight of his captain finally sleeping so quietly after bouts of insomnia and the shivers had ravaged him. _His_ captain! The constant worry still gnawed at Jopson, but now he felt almost as much at peace as, apparently, Crozier now did, and that was something to be grateful for. No, Jopson could not leave his side yet.

 

With just the lightest touch so as not to disturb his sleep, he brushed a strand of hair out of Crozier's face, then enclosed Crozier's warm, solid hand in his.

 

"I'm so glad you're better, Captain", he whispered. "You had us all worried sick. Dr Macdonald says you're past the worst of it now."

 

Of course Jopson did not expect the sleeping man to respond; this was merely a stolen chance to speak his mind. Who knew when he would be afforded another opportunity to do so? It might not be entirely appropiate for a steward to speak so plainly, but they were alone with no one to listen, and the way he knew his captain he would not begrudge Jopson a rare show of feeling even if he were awake to hear it.

 

"I got you, sir." He gave Crozier's hand a squeeze before carefully intertwining his own fingers with the captain's. "I got you. And I meant to say it before, but I dared not, so I must now seize the chance while I still can. You're the most important person in my life, sir."

 

Jopson withdrew his hand, then looked down at his lap, and supported his tired head in his palms. "I wouldn't know what to do without you, sir. I'm quite sure I don't feel like the others who need a captain on his voyage and count on you – of course I do, too, but I see and need you as even more than that. You are ... a friend to me ... if such a thing is possible between a master and his servant. But you have been good to me – so much more so than any other master possibly could have."

 

He exhaled, wiped a traitorous wetness from the corner of his eye. He looked up, saw Crozier sound asleep. _Thank God._

 

"Well, that's not quite right ... I've had friends in my life, but none that were so dear to me as you are, sir", he muttered. "My only regret is that I am not a woman, or I could have been your wife ... All the things I do, there's not much of a difference to what a wife would do, is there? I take care of you as well as any woman could ..." He blushed, realized what words had just escaped his mouth, and even though he knew no one could hear him, he hastened to add, "Not in _all_ ways, of course, but otherwise ... you know, sir."

 

He sighed, tried to banish those queer fancies from his raving mind. Not that he truly knew of such things, or of what wives really did with their husbands; his entire sexual experience being confined to manipulating himself to strange flights of fantasies that rarely involved women but more often his shipmates, or worse – Crozier.

 

Now it was truly time for a break before his sleep-deprived brain made him say something inappropiate!

 

He rose from the little footstool, straightened his jacket, and lifting the hem of Crozier's blanket he tucked him in again – an act that was completely unnecessary, but in a way Jopson didn't quite understand gave him a calmness of mind. Heaven knew he needed it.

 

"Sleep well, sir. I'll be right back. The doctor will check on you in the meanwhile."

 

 

*

 

 

Crozier's condition improved over the next few days – not that this would have been a reason for Jopson to hover any less frequently over him, watching his every move, telling or reading a story to him to pass the hours, and always having a cold, soaked towel ready in case the fever decided to return. Now that his beloved captain was at last better, Jopson would be a fool to forego those intimate moments of conversation, or even the quiet moments without it, so he spent as much time around him as before.

 

"Aren't you getting bored out of your mind, Jopson?"

 

The young steward looked up from the book he'd been reading, eyes wide open. "Sir?"

 

Captain Crozier was half sitting upon his bunk, propped up on one elbow, and regarding him with a look of curious amusement, smiling and with a raised eyebrow.

 

Jopson could not resist returning a wide smile. Not only was Crozier well enough to tease him thus, but there was a note of concern in his voice as well, and suddenly Jopson felt very exposed to his captain's inquiring gaze.

 

"No, sir. There's nothing I'd rather be doing than to take care of you."

 

"Have you heard that Captain Fitzjames is planning a carnival out on the ice, to celebrate the return of the sun?"

 

Jopson shook his head. That was new to him. "No, sir."

 

"Well, of course you haven't. Lieutenant Little told me, while you were at breakfast. It's no surprise, my dear fellow, that you don't know what's going on aboard our ships anymore, when you spend almost all of your time here with me."

 

Upon those words, Jopson's heart sank – was this a chiding? But Crozier was still smiling, a curious spark in his eyes, so he decided to clarify. "Would you rather be alone more, sir?"

 

Crozier chuckled. "I'm merely saying that I don't know what I've done to deserve you, Jopson."

 

"Oh ... I just ..." Jopson's blush spoke for him.

 

"You did so much for this grouchy old sod who himself has done nothing to deserve all this loving care ... beyond the necessary."

 

Torn between embarassment and joy, Jopson could only acknowledge his captain's words with a happy grin.

 

"Truly." In Crozier's eyes there was a rare twinkle which Jopson had only ever seen when he was in a merry mood and about to tell a joke either to him or to Thomas Blanky. "Who needs a wife when they've got you?"

 

Jopson's heart skipped a beat. This wasn't the sort of fun remark Crozier usually went for. Surely he was not entirely well yet. But Jopson remembered to laugh, and was very grateful that the captain could not read his mind. If he only knew!

 

Crozier leaned forward, closer to him and whispered, "You might as well come here and keep me warm in the marital bed." He patted the mattress.

 

Jopson paused, blinked. This, now, was most certainly said in jest, so much his rational mind knew. After all, he knew the captain quite well. But another side of him refused to accept that, and took over. He put the book aside and rose, fingers flying to his vest to unbutton it.

 

"Oh, Jopson! ... Wait ..." Crozier reached out a hand, signalling him to stop, but what he meant to say trailed off into a laugh.

 

Jopson stared at him, sensing his face turn hot with shame. Of course! The realization gripped his gut, cold as the screeching pack ice outside, and made him want to turn away. He looked at Crozier whose expression was, all of a sudden, very serious; and realized that he must present quite the crestfallen look himself.

 

"Jopson, I'm sorry. It ... I was just teasing you."

 

Jopson took a deep breath. It was late, he should have retired to his own cabin by now.

 

"I didn't realize ..." Now Crozier was the one to look embarrassed, as Jopson noticed not without surprise. "... that you ... would actually get into my bed."

 

They looked at each other. Whatever playfulness had twinkled in the captain's gaze before was gone – a dead serious Francis Crozier was staring at him.

 

Jopson merely nodded, not brave enough to speak.

 

"Well", Crozier said, waving Jopson toward him, and there could be no mistake that, this time, he meant it. "You want this? Then come here, damn propriety. No one needs to know."

 

If Jopson hadn't already been blushing before, he would be glowing now; warm with a new, delicious excitement. As quickly as he could – as if Crozier's invitation were a spell that must not be broken by standing around idly – he removed his shoes, but did not bother to take off anything more before climbing into the bunk along the older man.

 

The narrow bed provided nowhere near enough space for two grown men so he found himself even closer to his captain than usual in their daily routine, if such a thing was possible. They lay on their sides, face to face. Crozier's breathing – regular and quiet, thank God – tickled his nose, and he radiated a soothing warmth that enveloped Jopson as he pulled the blanket over them both.

 

Captain Crozier wore only his nightshirt, making his steward keenly aware of hard bone or soft flesh brushing against him as they both tried to adjust their position for more comfort. They settled for staying on their sides, foreheads almost touching.

 

Crozier was looking at him with an inquiring expression that Jopson hadn't seen on this all-too-familiar face before.

 

"Is this all right with you, Jopson?"

 

Jopson only nodded in haste, forgetting all formal manners. He must preserve this spell, be careful not to ruin this precious moment. He longed – his whole body demanded – for this closeness to his beloved captain, and yet it was not enough. For a moment silence hung between them, interrupted only by a brief groan of the pack ice.

 

"I was serious", Crozier said at last, "when I said that you did so much for me, as a wife would've done." He reached out a hand – Jopson noticed it was trembling, and most certainly not because of an ague. Warm, calloused fingertips stroked Jopson's cheek, and the captain was looking at him in near awe, even admiration, a sensation so novel and wonderful that Jopson held his breath. But how could this be!?

"Is this truly all right?" Crozier asked.

 

Jopson nodded, and did something he had never done before. Something in Crozier's eyes urged him to. He grabbed his captain's nightshirt collar.

 

Looking back he could not remember how it happened, not even who started it; but the next thing he felt was Crozier's body fiercely pressed against his, slamming him into the mattress; and faces meeting in a clumsy, desperate kiss.

 

Crozier's tongue plunged into Jopson's mouth, his pelvis was grinding against him and Jopson responded with the same urgency, squirming under his violent grip and tugging at his nightshirt, as Crozier struggled to hold him down to press a series of hard kisses onto his face and neck. His hands tugged at Jopson's collar to expose more of the tender skin of his neck, and _oh God_ , Crozier licked him there and the cool air on the wet spot sent a pleasant shudder rushing through him – Jopson cried out, with desperation as much as with want, bucking his hips up to push his erection against the older man.

 

Why did he lift his leg, wrapping it around Crozier's waist to press him harder and closer against him? Where did it come from, the sudden animalistic urge to feel him, to have him fill out the depths of his body? All he suddenly knew was he _wanted_ his captain, wanted him in a way he'd never wanted anyone before. Crozier had pulled up his nightshirt; and thrust his cock, hard and warm and completely exposed, against Jopson's thigh.

 

The entire madness took but a matter of minutes, and ended as quickly as it had started – Crozier spending on Jopson's trousers and Jopson likewise into them; then they looked at one another, the captain red-faced and breathing hard, his previously so neatly combed hair astray; his steward a heaving, panting mess with his cravat loose and collar out of place, shirt and vest half pulled up.

 

No one spoke.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"But I want to make myself perfectly clear", Captain Crozier said, looking around at the haggard, bearded faces of his officers, dimly illuminated through the flap of the tent. Outside, the howl of an icy gust interrupted the pause in the captain's speech. In contrast to them – Le Vesconte, Little and Jopson – Crozier was surprisingly well looking, as clear-eyed and alert as he'd never showed himself before on this cursed expedition.

"That is not our way", he continued. "If we are to deposit anything with a view to return at some later date it will be things, not men. I'd rather we leave our tents behind and sleep two to a sack like the orphans we are than leave one man alone with last burdens. And I speak not only of James. I'll not leave any one of you alone, either."

With those last words his gaze came to rest upon Jopson, and how comforting they were to hear! Of course Jopson had never doubted his captain's commitment for a second. They were all responsible for one another, no matter how dire their circumstances might become; and by God, Lieutenant Jopson would do his part. He had no illusions: with the mutineers having made off with some of the stronger men and vital supplies, the summer season nearing its end, and many of their group already too ill to man-haul, their chances of survival were dwindling every day. But with any luck in hunting, supplies of fresh meat might help them recover and stave off scurvy for long enough to move further south, mile by mile, until they'd find a larger Esquimaux population or even a rescue party. By now those must have been sent out.

If Captain Crozier was in any way distressed over Captain Fitzjames' condition he did not show it to Jopson in the few moments they were alone together. In fact, Crozier relentlessly put on a brave face, and Jopson observed it with both respect and concern. Crozier's care for his men was informed by a realistic pragmatism – that which a stubborn Sir John, God rest his soul, had dismissed as defeatism – and a decade of experience in the polar regions. If they were to fail, to succumb to the hardships of this cursed mission (not that Jopson would dare speak of such things) it would not be illness, nor cold, nor starvation that would be his captain's undoing. No, it would be the grief over the feeling that he had failed his men.

After Le Vesconte and Little had left the tent, Crozier gestured at Jopson to remain. For the first time in days, a stolen moment of their own. Crozier moved his box closer to Jopson and sat opposite him, taking one of his steward's – now lieutenant's – hands in his.

"How are you faring, Jopson?"

It was so rare now, so precious, to feel the warmth of Crozier's touch. For several moments Jopson allowed himself to savour that sensation without responding. Since their first intimate encounter on the dawn of Crozier's recovery more than half a year ago, they had not risked anything more than longing gazes and fleeting touches. Jopson would, when dressing him, let his hands linger on Crozier's shoulders a second longer than necessary. Crozier would, when receiving a garment from him, graze his fingers over Jopson's with a barely audible sigh. It was clear as day, ever obvious to Jopson who knew his captain like no one else, that Crozier was in love with him as much as Jopson also cared for him. "It is too dangerous", he had said, however. "We'll be found out."

Jopson had nearly been heartbroken. "We can be discreet", he'd begged.

"Some of the crew think ill toward me", Crozier had said. And Jopson understood.

He inhaled deeply, clasping Crozier's hand in both of his. They felt worn and calloused, as everyone's hands must be by now, but there was vigour in them, matched by the sharpness in his eyes.

"I'm doing as well as can be expected, sir", he said, knowing full well that he could never get away with even a white lie; Captain Crozier would be able to see right through him. "The illness has not advanced recently."

Gently, Crozier freed one hand from Jopson's grip, and brought it to the younger man's face, brushing aside some of the – by now far too long – black hair, examining the roots. His fingertips grazed Jopson's forehead and cheek. For a brief, painful moment Jopson was reminded of his appearance, unkempt, unwashed and sick, and he averted his gaze.

"It's not bleeding", Crozier said. "Thank God."

When Jopson looked back at him, he was smiling, holding Jopson's face in his warm, gentle hand, encouraging him to look at him. "You know what?"

"What, sir?"

"I got you, sir. You can count on that."

To hear those words from his captain – the same words he'd said to Crozier in a different time, an uncertain and precarious yet more hopeful time, prompted a chuckle from Jopson.

  
  


*

  
  


Since the hunting parties led by Lieutenant Little and Mate Sargent had brought in fewer and fewer caribou and smaller animals, Jopson's condition had worsened. The connection between fresh meat and reduced scurvy symptoms seemed clear as the health of some men visibly improved when they ate it raw; but for others such as Captain Fitzjames all help was too late. Fitzjames succumbed, attended by Crozier and Bridgens in his last moments. In the short interval between his passing and burial Jopson had seen the hitherto only time Crozier came to him for comfort. It was a strange, nearly odd, thing to feel his captain clinging to him so desperately, his face burrowed against Jopson's shoulder and his arms trembling around him as he stifled a sob against the wool of Jopson's coat. And Jopson held him tightly, distressed but also with a peculiar relief knowing that Crozier wasn't above allowing himself to show a human weakness after all. In this moment, too, no one spoke.

But now – now he'd not be able to be strong for his captain. Perhaps not ever again.

Thomas Jopson lay in the officers' tent, sick, filthy and hurting. His limbs were suspended among invisible shards of glass that pricked him with every movement; his throat felt sore and raw, no amount of water sufficient to still its burn. When he had lifted himself from the makeshift bedstead in an attempt to wash, he'd found a bunch of black hair on his pillow, roots greasy and bloody. He'd given up on the ablutions, then, after his shoulders and arms hurt too much to pull his shirt over them. But he needed to change his position, so he tried at least to sit up, slowly, carefully. His joints were sending angry stabs of pain throughout his arms and legs, and he willed himself not to cry in frustration. It was in this instant Captain Crozier entered the tent.

Terribly aware of the undignified image he presented – to his beloved captain, of all people – Jopson brushed hair from his forehead and eye, even though he realized how pointless it was; that he no longer had the strength to make himself look neat, but how hard this reality was to accept!

"At ease, Jopson. At ease." Crozier knelt on the ground at Jopson's side.

"Is there something I can do for you, sir?"

"You can lie there, not feeling well while I try and cheer you up by telling you the story of the time anyone ever let me ride a cow."

Smiling was difficult with his cracked lips hurting like this, but Jopson couldn't help it. "I know that story ends with you head first in a compost heap."

"Well, would you like to hear it or not?" A cheerful twinkle had appeared in Crozier's eyes, as if they weren't in that terrible predicament right now, but back on the _Terror_ in better days, on a quiet evening when he was in a merry mood. That's how Jopson remembered him telling a story such as this one.

"Yeah."

Captain Crozier opened the first few buttons of Jopson's shirt, then took the washcloth from the basin that was still standing at the bed, and dabbed it across Jopson's throat. It was a mundane, simple act of care, as Jopson had done many times for the captain throughout his withdrawal from drink, yet he couldn't stop tears from welling up in his eyes as the captain did the same for him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, with almost a tender reverence.

"The cow in question, it belonged to a neighbour", Crozier began.

"Foley."

"Yes, Coilin Foley". He reached further under the shirt, wiping over Jopson's shoulders and sternum. "He used to kick that cow when he wanted it to move. And it never wanted to move. She just stood in the grass meadow all day long, which is why us children thought she'd be a safe one to climb up."

How could his captain look at him so admiringly, now of all times, as if beholding beauty where there was none? It was almost too much to bear. Jopson closed his eyes as emotion threatened to overwhelm him. If he could not do anything else for his captain, the very least he could still do was not to cry. He leaned his head back into the pillow, a single tear running from the corner of his eye.

"So...", Crozier continued. "The first trick was getting on top of the thing." He carefully dried the tear off Jopson's face, completely unfazed by his lieutenant's improper display of emotion. Jopson's dry, cracked lips burnt but he managed a weak laugh, happy and grateful for this precious moment with Captain Crozier here for him, and him only.

But there was also a question weighing heavy on his heart. Jopson knew that Crozier loved all of his men, in his own practical way – a way that the late Sir John had not been able to grasp, all promises of honor and glory (and woe to those who dared doubt them!). And Crozier loved Jopson in a special way, as was clear right here and now from the way he spoke to him, gazed at him. It gave Jopson both infinite comfort and agony. He didn't need to be able to get up and wander about to be well aware of their situation: At least half of their group were too ill for a trek of some hundreds of miles south. But move south they must; where else would they find rescue? And there was no way they'd be able to haul all their dying comrades with them, that much Jopson's practical-thinking mind understood perfectly. What plans had Captain Crozier made? He had said, of course, that he'd leave no man behind, and Jopson wanted to believe those words, treasure them, hold onto them desperately. How did Crozier plan to go about bringing everyone along? Perhaps it was the illness and Jopson was losing his ability to think clearly, for he found no answers.

"Captain", he began weakly. "I wanted to ask you about ... I know this isn't easy ..."

"Yes?" Crozier was finished with the washing; he buttoned Jopson's shirt closed, and took one of his lieutenant's hands in his.

A sudden commotion outside the tent interrupted their quiet, shared intimacy and Jopson's anxious search for the right words. Captain Crozier was about to sprint outside, as Jopson could tell from the way his hand tensed, and readied himself to get up.

It was then that one of the Marines, breathless and agitated, stumbled inside the tent.

"Captain", the soldier panted, "it's Lieutenant Parkes, he's outside, they'll help us!" Apparently it cost him great effort to string together a coherent sentence, but even so, what he said made no sense to Jopson at first. "Lieutenant Parkes of the _Enterprise_ , sir! They've come to help us, he is outside ... Captain, we are saved! _We are saved!"_

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is a longer one, but bear with me here. The ending will be worth it ;)

When Thomas Jopson first had felt the gentle listing and tilting of the crowded HMS _Enterprise_ , not from the force of ancient pack ice but waves of open water, he could have cried with relief, with joy, but most importantly, with hope.

He lay in a hammock, strung up in the great cabin of the crowded ship, as they made their way out of the winter quarters. It had been a tough winter. They had suffered further losses, but the _Enterprise's_ officers had had some success hunting even in the darkness; and of course, the ship was well stocked with fresh lemon juice, and their doctor experimented with raising cress from seeds, producing a few pale little shoots. "Sir Parry already did this in 1819", the doctor had explained to him. The resulting sprouts, although by far not sufficient in amount, at least helped alleviate the symptoms of scurvy in Jopson and several other men whose illness was not too far advanced.

So although he was not well yet, his condition had improved. Every day he moved about, carefully taking small steps at a time, and found he was not entirely used to walking on a moving ship any more, but he didn't have to worry: the _Enterprise_ was crowded enough that there was always someone nearby to look out for him, to catch him if he stumbled. Coincidentally, that person often was Crozier. He, too, was berthed in a hammock in the great cabin – Captain Collinson's own quarters being no larger than those on _Erebus_ or _Terror,_ he could not have made space for another captain there if he tried – as were Mr Bridgens, Lieutenant Little and the other remaining officers. The petty officers and sailors made their quarters on the mess deck together with the people of the _Enterprise_ , and although they had to crowd too close for comfort at times, spirits were high: the company of their saviour ship could expect a handsome reward for bringing home the survivors of the Franklin Expedition who in turn were finally allowing themselves the anticipation and joy of returning home to their families.

Thomas Jopson expected to hear the screeching of the pack ice, its banging and crashing against the hull at any moment, but of course it did not come. This really wasn't a dream – they were free. Free, at last, from besetment in that icy desert; and what he heard outside was the rolling of the waves, the calling of the auks and peterels. It was April of 1849, and the _Enterprise_ sailed through  Prince of Wales Strait in what Captain Collinson's officers judged an early season. Jopson sat at the stern window, watching thin ice floes and bergy bits behind them disappear into a sunny mist – the movement of the sea a strange view for someone who'd become accustomed to wide, endless mountain ranges of seemingly immobile ice.

"How are you?"

The voice nearly made him jump out of his reveries. Captain Crozier was there, and sat down next to him. He was back in his uniform – it needed a brushing, Jopson immediately noted. _It looks worn and dusty._ He was tempted to laugh at himself: after everything they'd gone through, after tallying their catastrophic losses, the one thing he first thought about upon seeing his captain was _this_. The second thing, of course, being the secret desire to fling himself into his arms.

"Captain!" At least he would not conceal his joy upon seeing him. "I feel much better. How about you?" He touched his own face, still feeling self-conscious of his appearance although he was shaving regularly now, and had received a haircut, too.

Francis Crozier's gaze seemed lost in the view of the icy sea outside the double-glazed window panes. "I'm thinking about what'll expect me back home."

"The court martial will be a mere formality, sir." Everyone knew that no captain had yet been condemned for abandoning a ship out of necessity. Crozier would be celebrated whether he liked it or not; they'd return as polar heroes.

To his surprise, Captain Crozier asked him. It wasn't as if he had never asked personal questions before – but they'd never pertained to the future. "What are your plans, Jopson?"

"My ... plans?"

"When you arrive home."

Jopson had to ponder his response for a while – he knew, of course, what he  _wanted_ – but that, and what he  _should_ and  _could_ do, were not necessarily the same; and a part of him had never stopped longing for that frivolous, unrealistic dream: a future with Captain Crozier.

"I'm ... going to see my brother", he said. "He must be a young man now. He's probably taken up an apprenticeship ... I hope that, with my wages, I could send him to a higher school, for better employment prospects."

"And what about your career?"

"My ...?" Jopson had not thought about his own promotion in quite a while.

"Even in peacetime there will be plenty of opportunities for a young officer with an exemplary record such as yours."

Jopson chuckled. "I have to admit ... I've not given it much thought yet, sir." A tender hope rose in him – what if Crozier had asked him this to gauge whether Jopson's plans might align with his own? What if Crozier had been entertaining the same dream? He'd spoken of retirement, after all. The Navy, the public, they'd expect their polar hero to write a book, just as Captain Parry had done. Jopson could see it, just as he'd pictured it in his imagination many times before: he and Crozier together in a comfortable drawing room, sharing a récamière in front of a blazing fireplace after their work for the day was done.

  
  


*

  
  


London

December 1849

  
  


The adjustment was harder than he had expected. Back then during the Antarctic expedition they had made regular stops in Hobart, Tasmania; but it was a very different thing now to return to a bustling city on firm land after not having seen anything like it for four years. Over those past years in the Arctic, memories of England had partially changed. Details had distorted in his imagination, and to walk the streets of the capital now overwhelmed his mind as he noticed every single thing and whether or not it was as he'd remembered it. The cobblestone under his feet was suddenly new and fascinating –  _why haven't I thought of the cobblestone all this time?_ – as were many other odd and random things.  _Civilization shock_ , one of the old Arctic veterans had called it. Even the air, though familiar, was uncomfortably new; wet and heavy with vapors of British industry, covering facades in soot. Jopson marveled at a grimy gargoyle-face molded into the keystone of a windowframe, when his wonder was suddenly interrupted by the clattering of hooves and a coachman shouting at him to make way. As the carriage rumbled by, splattering his shoes and trousers with a fine mist of mud and rainwater, he couldn't help but take note of the horses, seeing those beautiful and strange beasts up close for the first time in four years.

He tried to remind himself that he was home now, that he was lucky to have survived, but sometimes it felt still too unreal to accept.

  
  


*

  
  


When Captain Crozier wrote to him, asking to see him, Jopson knew it was about the gala. The first and grandest of perhaps several more balls to come that survivors of an Arctic expedition owed to London society to attend. It was at those galas that the public would gawk at their frostbitten fingers and careworn faces, and listen, enraptured, to tales of hardships and heroism. Jopson would not have minded telling a story or two to a group of fine ladies and gentlemen; and as a lieutenant, he had been expressly invited to attend. But the reason he'd stayed away was embarrassing, almost laughable. 

It had to do with Crozier. Of course, Jopson wanted to see him – he even might have made do with a few stolen moments with Crozier at the gala when the captain was not occupied with more important people of higher rank – but more than seeing him at such an event, he wanted to see him alone. He had to tell him how he felt. That damned gala could go to the devil – Jopson wanted Crozier to himself.

  
  


*

  
  


He received Captain Crozier in his lodgings on Beltham Street – a small room, but it was clean and much more nicely furnished than he'd previously been able to afford on a petty officer's pay. There even was a tiled stove radiating an inviting warmth; and when Crozier stepped inside he let out a content sigh. It felt like an old and comforting habit when Jopson helped him out of his winter coat, just as he'd done as a steward.

"That's a fine quarter you've got yourself, Thomas."

"Thank you ... Francis." He was not quite used to it yet, but upon their return to England, Crozier had insisted they leave the formalities behind them. "Please, sit." He motioned toward two upholstered chairs in front of the stove. "Would you like some tea?"

"That would be marvellous." Crozier stretched his legs in the direction of the fire.

When Jopson returned with a full teapot from the landlord's kitchen downstairs, Crozier asked, "So why didn't I see you at the gala, Tom?" He looked mildly concerned. "They did send you an invitation, didn't they? Your promotion was upheld."

Jopson sighed. "They did, indeed. But ... I didn't feel like attending."

Crozier chuckled. "Would've been a fish out of water, eh? I, too, can imagine more fun things than being paraded about like a rare beast in a circus! I try to avoid those events, usually – by God, they're  _tedious!_ You didn't miss much, Tom. But you are well, aren't you? I just had to make sure."

"I am well, absolutely." Still feeling self-conscious, Jopson touched his face, as if to ascertain himself of the fullness that had only recently returned to his cheeks, and he grinned sheepishly. "I gained the weight back."

"Thought so." Crozier took Jopson's hand in his, carefully balancing the teacup in the other. "You look good." Then, words trailing off into a near whisper, "So very handsome."

Blushing, Jopson looked down into his teacup, and took a sip. Crozier's fingers entangled his, and for a moment he dared dream. The unspeakable dream. Or was it? Crozier had not spoken of that woman, Franklin's niece, again. What stood between them and the future Jopson imagined, now that they were no longer on a ship? They could have privacy now. Perhaps even intimacy.

Jopson set his teacup down onto the tray, and put his other hand upon Crozier's, enclosing the captain's rough and worn fingers and palm in his. "I need to tell you something, Francis."

Crozier's eyebrow shot upward – his signature look of questioning.

"The real reason I did not attend the gala ... it's a very silly one, really." Jopson found himself unable to suppress an embarrassed smile.

Crozier leaned closer toward him, his gaze one of unabashed curiosity mixed with concern.

"I didn't want to buy a lieutenant's full dress uniform." This alone made no sense, he would need time to explain, and he set about to continue.

But Crozier was faster. "Tom", he exclaimed, clearly in surprise. "There will be many more events like this, not just here but on Navy ships, too – you're going to need that uniform sooner or later, you might as well ..." A look of realization dawned on his face. "Oh, Christ! It's the  _money_ , isn't it!? Oh, Tom, you could've told me ... I will help you with that, I always – "

"No, no, no!" Now Jopson was the one interrupting his former superior, freeing his hand and waving it about in front of him. "It's not the money!"

"You needn't be ashamed – I know how goddamned  _dear_ those fancy slops can be! Especially that useless sword – "

It's  _not_ the money, Francis!" Jopson's tone was, to his own surprise, sharper than usual, and Crozier fell silent at once. Feeling slightly mortified – in his previous employment, he could never have talked to his captain like that – he inhaled, returning to his soft manner of speaking. "Forgive me, I ... I need to explain."

Crozier nodded, evidently not offended but his brows slightly furrowed with apprehension.

Jopson cleared his throat. "It is ... that I won't be needing that uniform in the future. I have no desire to pursue a career in the Navy."

He looked at Crozier, and, just as he'd feared, the man's mouth stood agape. Crozier stuttered, closed his mouth, then opened it again for an incredulous "What!??"

Uneasy, Jopson shifted in his chair. The tea was long consumed, his hands restless.  _Please let him understand_ , he prayed silently to a God he'd months ago almost had lost faith in. "I'm ... I'm not made for command. It doesn't befit me."

For a moment Crozier appeared to be weighing his words. "Are you sure? I've seen you out there, Thomas ... you can shout commands as if you'd been doing it for years. And the men respect you, they sense your integrity. Just because you were a servant before ..." He held out his palms in front of him as if to convey,  _this is so obvious it doesn't need saying._

"Francis ... Captain, the truth is, I was very content being your steward only." He swallowed hard, praying that Crozier would understand and accept what must sound rather like a love confession. "I would rather continue as such in the future. Even when you're retired you have use of a servant, surely?"

Both of Crozier's eyebrows were now raised high as he looked at Jopson with disbelief, and it was a while before he found words. "Are you serious, Tom?"

"It would appeal to me more than being an officer." If there was such a thing as a medal for understatements, Thomas Jopson probably deserved one.

"You ... would forego a well-paying  _lieutenant post_ " – Crozier intonated the last two words with utter unbelief – "to take care of a grumpy old codger in his retirement!?"

Jopson nodded.

"But you ..." Crozier threw his hands up, "... you are still so young! Surely you would want to settle down eventually, with a sweetheart ... a wife!?"

Jopson shook his head.

"Tom, you can't be  _goddamned serious_ ...!"

"Please", Jopson said. "Consider it, at least. I've thought about it for a long time." He took Crozier's hand back in his, relieved to feel no resistance. To finally open up to his beloved, to speak of his impossible dream, had worked him up to the point he was sweating with nervousness, but now he felt strangely elated. He could make Crozier understand. He would. Taking advantage of the older man's stunned silence Jopson leaned forward. His heart pounded, but he didn't stop to think. And then it was Crozier – oh joy, o sweet triumph! – who grabbed the back of Jopson's head and pressed his mouth against Jopson's with a startling fervor. And Jopson responded in kind, moaning against him with a long suppressed ache, feeling every limb of his body drawn to him. 

It wasn't until they separated that Jopson noticed both their ragged breathing, and how he was clasping Crozier's waistcoat and shirtsleeve as if he was holding onto him for dear life. The captain's cheeks had assumed a ruddy glow – much like in former days when he'd had one whiskey too many. He brought his hand to Jopson's face but this time it wasn't a purely gentle and comforting gesture as he'd done months ago. There was a dark want in his gaze and Jopson knew that look; it was the same look Crozier had given him at that time they were huddled together in the bunk of HMS _Terror,_ just before they'd forgotten themselves and let their lust take over.

"Thomas", his voice, low and raspy, sent a pleasant tingle down to Jopson's loins, and a delectable tension through his guts – "you have no idea how much I want you. How much I've been wanting you all this time."

Those words could as well have been Jopson's own. "Francis", he whispered, "you know that I'm yours. There's nothing I want more than that." He could have given in to that old desire, right here and now ... if he were to pull him into an embrace, right now ... The mere idea of Crozier pushing him onto the bed in the corner of the room, trapping him in a passionate kiss, made Jopson lightheaded.

Crozier sighed and leaned back, emptying the last tea in his cup, then looked away, wistfully, at the window. Outside, a cold December wind howled through the city streets. "I want it too, Tom. But I can't let you throw away your future."

The comment took Jopson aback. However sincere the captain's sentiment may be, this wasn't fair! "Forgive me, Francis, but I don't think you can rightfully say that." It felt almost like trespassing, like crossing a border, to correct his former superior like this, but excitement emboldened him. "I am a grown man, and I know what I want. And this is honest employment – I've been with you for the past ten years. And you were satisfied with my work, were you not?"

In response, Crozier uttered a sound between a scoff and a laugh. His hand landed on Jopson's knee, and squeezed him hard, prompting a little gasp of surprise. "Honest employment!?" he growled, moving his hand higher, near Jopson's inner thigh, in an almost aggressive gesture. _"This!??"_

It took Jopson a few moments to ignore his body's own mind – his member gave an eager twitch at that demanding touch – and recognize Crozier's conflict for what it was. Ever so gently, he once again enclosed Crozier's hand in his. "Is that what you feel guilty about?"

The older man cast his gaze down, rubbing his face and eyes with the other, free hand. All of a sudden he seemed to be very tired.

"Francis ... if we both want it, why not?"

  
  


*

  
  


The letter arrived three days later, and Jopson almost tore it to parts while trying to open it with shaky fingers.

 _My dearest Thomas,_ it read,

_The matter has occupied me more than I like to admit, & I need to speak to you about it. Please call on me at your soonest convenience._

Jopson felt his head swarming with all sorts of wild and panicked thoughts. This sounded serious. _Calm down, you fool,_ he told himself. _It will be fine. All will be good._

But he could not get himself to calm down. The remote but real possibility that Crozier might have decided to reject him as his lover, lest he compromise both their reputation and status, seemed all too real and overwhelming. Allowing himself to despair over something he rationally knew had not happened – at least not yet – he lay on his bed, facedown, and sobbed into the pillow until he regained a modicum of self-control.

  
  


*

  
  


On the day of his visit he was, to his own surprise, much more composed. Captain Crozier had his lodgings in a very nice townhouse as befitted a retired Navy officer of his rank. A lady in a plain black dress with a white apron, who appeared to be about fifty years of age, opened the door for him.

"You must be Mr Jopson", she said, scrutinizing him from head to toes.

So Crozier had told his housekeeper about him. Jopson nodded anxiously. "Yes. My pleasure, Miss ..."

"Barnaby." She motioned him to enter the house.

As Jopson stood in the dark hallway, hastily fumbling to remove his winter coat to hand it to Miss Barnaby, a figure appeared from one of the rooms.

At first, the silhouette was completely unfamiliar – then he realized it was Captain Crozier, wearing something Jopson hadn't ever seen him wear before: a long dressing gown showing off India patterns in blue, purple and dark red. "Thomas", he beamed. "Come in, come on in. I've made a nice fire in the drawing room. ... Thank you, Miss Barnaby!"

He led Jopson into a rather large parlour that was both warmed and brightened by a blazing fireplace. There stood a desk littered with paper and books, testament to Crozier's current occupation to write the polar explorer's narrative the public was so eagerly waiting for; and Jopson noticed volumes by Ross and Parry among them – Crozier, not an eager writer himself, was attempting to follow their example. The walls were covered in wallpaper patterns of the fashionable Scheele's green, and hung with framed prints and drawings of landscapes. A thick Afghan carpet dominated the floor, and placed upon it were a set of armchairs and a small coffee table.

Upon being offered, Jopson took a seat in front of the fireplace. The older man's merry mood did much to keep his anxiety at bay. If Crozier intended to – _don't even think it, you ass!_ – spurn his affections, surely he would not look at him with that warm smile, would he?

The housekeeper brought them tea and biscuits; and when she closed the doors behind her, Crozier sighed. "I'm so glad you're here, Tom."

"So am I", Jopson said. "You ... you've had time to consider?" He knew how impatient and desperate he must sound, but he couldn't help himself.

"Well ... here's what's the matter." Crozier was not sitting down; instead, he paced about in front of the fireplace, and a slight uneasiness started to press down on Jopson's insides. _Get a hold of yourself._ He held onto the edge of the armchair, tea and biscuits on the little coffee table all but forgotten.

Crozier looked at him, down from his still standing position. He appeared restless. "I don't want you as my servant."

The words sank in, slowly, just as Jopson's heart and spirits sank. He hung his head, staring at his lap, barely managing a "... No?"

"Thomas." Crozier's voice sounded remote. "I'm not finished yet. Look at me."

Jopson looked up, at the other man's figure towering in front of him. Crozier was searching for something in the pockets of his dressing gown. "Ah!" A nervous grin distorted his face, announcing that he had found it.

Confused, Jopson could only stare at him.

Crozier held out something in front of him, presenting it to him on his open palm. It was a small box – a pill or snuff box, Jopson thought at first glance, but then noticed it was covered in dark blue velvet, unlike those; and he immediately thought of something to do with the Navy – but it was too small for a medal ...

... and why was Crozier suddenly down there?

The captain had sunk onto one knee in front of his former steward. His grin had disappeared, replaced by a dead serious expression. Jopson had difficulties processing what he was seeing. He'd never seen that look on Crozier's face before. The captain's hands were trembling as he opened the little box.

And Jopson realized, utterly unprepared for the wave of emotion that hit him.

Staring at the little silver ring in the box, with its glittering stone, he opened his mouth in speechless awe, sensing tears well up in his eyes and noting the same glinting in Crozier's eyes just before him.

Francis Crozier's voice was shaky when he asked the question.

"Thomas Jopson ... would you allow me to be yours?"

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which my favorite Arctic husbands finally get their well-deserved wedding night.

They hadn't quite made it to Crozier's bedroom yet.

Jopson stumbled in the dark corridor, drunk on excitement, and found himself scooped up in his lover's arms, pushed against the wall. The bedroom door, slightly ajar and throwing a beam of golden lamplight on the tiled floor, was just a yard away, yet they both paused here, Jopson with his back to the wall and Crozier facing him, his hands on Jopson's waist and arm. He expected to wake from a dream any moment now.

  
  


_Jopson's heart skipped a beat upon seeing the ring. This was so completely and astonishingly unexpected that he was unable to speak right away. His eyes filled with tears; and he nodded, trying to show his response clearly and unmistakably so Crozier would not doubt his meaning. "Yes", he managed, voice wavering. "Yes!"_

  
  


Jopson reached for Crozier's head – a sparkle of the right flashed past him in the dim light of the hallway – and pulled him towards him, sense and propriety be damned, he wanted him _now!_ The secret longing, so carefully tamed and silenced over time but never fully suppressed, had rapidly grown into a pressing, acute want that made Jopson's head light and his prick hard. An ardent hunger, perhaps as old as the human race, and it did not startle him now, not anymore; instead, he simply gave into it.

Jopson pushed his lips against Crozier's, moaning softly against the other's invading tongue that seemed to want to claim him, just as the captain's hands also did, running down his flanks and back, cupping and squeezing his bottom. Thomas Jopson, utterly at the mercy of those possessive hands, gathered his last remaining wits to use his own, tousling the older man's graying ginger hair and bunching a fist into his dressing gown, each touch and grope the expression of a desire which was better shown than said. Crozier's warm, inviting mouth ravished his own shamelessly, a rude but all the more exciting contrast to the shy, tentative kiss they had shared just minutes earlier.

  
  


_Crozier returned to stand on both feet. His face broke into a wide smile and there was a wetness glistening in his eyes as he held the little box with the ring toward him. "It ... may be a little too small", he muttered, waving a hand about in a gesture of apology. "It was originally meant for Miss Cracroft ... I can have it altered."_

_"No matter." Jopson dared only whisper as the emotion threatened to overtake him and he was not ready to cry, not here and now. With trembling fingers he fumbled the tiny silver ring out of its velvety bed. It was indeed to small for his ring finger but slid almost effortlessly onto his pinky, and the stone had a fascinating color and sparkle to it – and it should have felt so silly and wrong – for Christ's sake, was he a maiden? Could a man marry a man? – but he wanted to, needed to sit down, head dizzy with elation. And Crozier's face, beaming at him with a single tear on his rough cheek, was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld._

_"It fits." Jopson barely heard his own voice as he showed him the jewel. Crozier's response was to take Jopson's hand and press a kiss onto its back almost reverently. Never would Jopson have expected, even in his wildest dreams about his captain, to ever see him in this vulnerable state, hands sweaty with nearly palpable anxiety, lips trembling with emotion barely held back. Only the withdrawal had ever exposed him in a comparable way, and that had been an entirely different matter. Jopson knew he had to reassure him, to show him how wonderful and right all this was. So he leaned forward, one hand ever so gently on Crozier's weathered cheek, and kissed him._

  
  


They parted faces and stared at one another, panting. Cool air on his just kissed, wet mouth instantly made Jopson want to return to where they'd just been, in that warm and lascivious congress of mouths and hands.

"Come", Crozier whispered, and nodded toward the bedroom door.

Under different circumstances Jopson might have noticed the order of things – or lack thereof – in this bachelor's bedchamber, but now all he could think of was to get his lover onto that bed there with him now; his need to feel and claim, to be felt and claimed, allowed no other focus of his mind. He sank onto the soft mattress, half pushed there, half pulling Crozier down with him; and desperately tried to show him what he needed. Their mouths met again, and Jopson held onto him with arms and thighs, inhaled his scent of pipe tobacco and wooden ship planks and _eau de cologne,_ and losing himself in the frantic entanglement of tongues and limbs. He needed this _, oh God,_ he needed to be yet closer, more of him. Moaning into their clumsy kiss, he bucked his loins up against him, the hard prick at their center his guiding force.

"Tom", Crozier's voice, although their lips still almost touched, seemed far away. "Tom, calm yourself ..." Strong hands pushed him gently down onto the feather bed, and Jopson blinked in confusion for a second. "Let's take our time", Crozier said. "I don't want this to be over in a minute." He shuffled back until he knelt between Jopson's spread thighs, and took off his dressing gown, and Jopson, propped up on his elbows, watched.

Of course he had seen his captain undressed before, even fully nude, but this was different because he now disrobed _for him._ And Jopson took in all he could, shamelessly looking as he had never looked before, registering Crozier's stocky thighs and the smattering of light hair on his chest and soft belly; and naturally the cock he'd never stopped dreaming about – for the first time, he saw it half erect. No one would have judged Francis Crozier conventionally beautiful, yet for Jopson in this moment there was nothing more desirable than the comforting presence and and power his body signaled to him. Sturdy and strong, able to withstand the ravages of the polar regions, Captain Crozier was like a venerable old warship, and Jopson was ready to trust it with his life no matter what the voyage might bring.

Jopson began to undo his own cravat with shaky fingers, rationally understanding that he should – and he also wanted to – take his time and savour this previous moment, but reason had no power where a hard cock demanded attention, and his was now so rigid that it ached almost painfully against the confines of his trousers, and he grunted in frustration as he worked his way down, fumbling helplessly with the buttons.

"Let me", Crozier offered. He was definitely the calmer of them both now; and opened Jopson's waistcoat with steady control, very much as if he were the experienced steward in this scenario. "Let me undress you, Tom ..."

Jopson struggled to remove the waistcoat and threw it aside. Crozier's hands were already at his shirt, gently at first, then dragging it out of his trousers with more determination, and he ran his hands underneath, feeling the younger man's bare hot skin. Jopson gasped, arching his body toward him, toward the exploring touch, winced as the fingers grazed his nipples. How often had he let his own hands roam over his body, imagining that they were his captain's? Now Crozier was here, his rough, hot palms feeling every inch of Jopson's torso, leaving it burning with want.

"Francis", Jopson gasped, "oh, please, please..."

Crozier let one hand trail up to Jopson's throat, tracing the area where smooth tender skin transitioned over to dark stubble. With a sigh, Jopson let his head fall back into the pillow so he would have better access. At a loss for words, he held onto Crozier, trying to make it clear how badly he needed to feel him, feel him everywhere. To have his lover's robust hands on his most vulnerable regions sent coils of pleasure churning through his stomach and still-dressed nether regions. His cock strained against the clothing, eager to be freed. He had to remove those trousers, goddamnit, he must –

"Ohh", Jopson inhaled sharply when he felt Crozier's other hand pressing down onto the bulge between his legs, rubbing along it. He pushed his hips up, following the natural instinct to thrust into the source of the sensation promising relief, only to find himself gently restrained. "Easy, lad", Crozier's raspy voice breathed near his ear. "Easy." Suddenly the older man's lips were on the tender skin of Jopson's ear, and when he licked it the unexpected wetness in combination with air sent a pleasant hot shudder throughout him, right down to his aching prick. There, Crozier – again, oh for the love of God – rubbed and squeezed, and it was nearly too much. Jopson whined and grasped the sheet. "Please", his voice came out as barely more than a breathy sigh, "please!"

If anything, Crozier seemed intent on subjecting him to more pleasure and frustration at the same time. Kissing and nibbling along Jopson's neck and throat while stroking his hard cock, he took his goddamn time. It was too much! "God", Jopson groaned, reaching down for the buttons of his trousers. "Francis, _please!"_

Perhaps realizing that Jopson might spend too soon if further teased so ruthlessly, Crozier at last focused his attention further down. He fumbled with the younger man's remaining clothing, unbuttoning it, and together they dragged his trousers down along with his drawers, Jopson kicking and pulling them off in a haste. He was no longer shy about displaying his most intimate regions so unabashedly, if he'd ever thought he might be; now, he practically forced Crozier to look at the visible expression of his unsatisfied need. And indeed, Crozier's gaze rested there for an unbearably long moment, as if he wanted to impress this picture on his mind forever – Jopson half sitting and half lying in front of him, thighs wide open and erection dripping.

"Come here", Jopson begged. "I want – I need to feel you, please..."

"Lean back. I'll make you feel good." With that, Crozier dove between Jopson's spread legs. Jopson barely had had the time to fully register the liberating sensation of his cock no longer so confined, and now Crozier closed his mouth around it.

The initial shock that his lover would do a thing so unspeakably obscene soon gave way to new waves of pleasure unfurling hot and deep inside him. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to whimper and pant as he rode those almost galvanic surges. Clearly, this wasn't Crozier's first time doing this. He held Jopson's cock with one hand, caressing his thighs and side with the other as he sucked, up and down, finding a controlled rhythm, and taking him in surprisingly deep.

"Captain", he panted, having completely forgotten that they were no longer on formal Navy terms, "ohh, this is good ... so good..." When he looked down between his thighs, the sight of his lover there was almost enough to bring him over the edge. Crozier paused, looking up to look at Jopson.

"Come for me, lad", he said. "I want to taste you." Then he resumed his ministrations, pumping Jopson's shaft with a determined grip while working its upper part with his mouth, alternating between slow and tantalizing licks, and more forceful sucking.

"I'm close", Jopson panted, and for a clear-headed second he wondered if Crozier realized the danger of ending up with a load in his mouth. Surely he wouldn't...? But in the next moment, he was too far gone to think. He allowed himself to surrender to the mounting stimulation, head thrown back into the silken pillow, chest heaving with hard breaths, and moaning. It might be a lowly service that Crozier was doing, but it was him, Thomas Jopson, who was completely overpowered and conquered by it. He tried to prolong the crests of pure pleasure rushing through him and at the same time to stop them from drowning him; but it was futile – Crozier worked him too hard, to well.

With a groan, Jopson gave in to the overwhelming urge to thrust his pelvis up as he spent, against the resistance of Crozier trying to hold him in place, and let the sweetest of realeases wash over him in an explosion of blissful nothingless.

His eyelids fluttered open, and the first thing he noticed was Crozier's face above his, and a peculiar tingling sensation that had spread through his hands.

"You all right, my love?"

Jopson nodded. "You ..." he croaked, and all of a sudden his throat felt parched. Crozier was off the bed already, pouring him water from a jug on the nightstand, and Jopson took the offered glass with trembling hands. After drinking, he asked, "What about you?"

"All in good time." Crozier climbed back into the bed, pulling the blanket over himself and inviting Jopson to lie down alongside him under it. "Come here, let's rest. I'll hold you."

Thus lying with his back toward Crozier who held him from behind in a comforting, protective embrace, Jopson grinned to himself, unable to believe his good fortune. He was the world's luckiest man indeed!

"Francis", he said breathlessly, "this was so good, so good ..."

Crozier chuckled. "And you needed it so badly. If I had had any inkling, I'd have given it to you much sooner!"

"Don't you ... want more?" Jopson might be inexperienced, but he wanted to return the pleasure. If anything, that's what a true gentleman would do!

He tried to turn around to face him, but Crozier gently motioned him to stay in place. "You're tired, Tom. I'll not make you work now."

Indeed, Jopson was close to dozing off, exhausted but utterly content. "Hm", he murmured, "in a moment, then."

He could have fallen asleep here and now, but a vague want to satisfy his lover, to take care of him, kept him awake, even though he'd closed his eyes. Crozier was warm behind him, all soft middle and hard bones, and his crotch so very close to Jopson's bottom. Sighing into the pillow, not quite pretending to be asleep, Jopson pushed his posterior out. It fit snugly in the older man's loins, and Crozier pressed himself closer to him in response, mouthing a kiss against Jopson's nape and caressing his shoulders, waist and hips.

For a while they stayed thus, and Jopson would surely have drifted off into sleep if it were not for Crozier's growing arousal. He inwardly rejoiced when he felt the rather heavy, rock hard length pressing against his bottom. What a powerful feeling to have caused such a reaction!

Jopson sighed in approval, grinding his own bottom lazily against that cock. A drop of hot moisture smeared over one of his buttocks where the hard tip nudged it. He tried to keep his breath steady. Crozier's cock felt much bigger than in the flaccid or semi-hard state he'd seen it; and now it was grinding across his buttocks until it was gently nudged into the cleft between them. It was glorious!

"Fuck me", Jopson whispered. He was so comfortable now both in body and mind that he was ready for anything; he was also tired but not too tired to be used for his lover's pleasure, and having him inside him had always been the most exciting idea of his fancies. There had been moments, when he knew he was alone, when he'd probed himself with an oiled finger and later increased it to two, and then imagined it was his captain ravishing him, and it was always enough to bring him to the apex. But he'd never told Crozier any of this. 

"Not yet, lad."

"I... I can handle it."

"Shht." Crozier was now stroking himself, slowly at first, until his warm body was slightly shaking with the movements of his hand. Jopson heard the wet, slapping sounds, the gentle rocking of a fist against his buttocks. Crozier held the tip firmly against Jopson's arsehole, where it occasionally slipped over it, along the valley.

Jopson's own arousal returned, almost as quickly as it had first come, and he wondered – how was Crozier able to restrain himself in this situation? How did he not simply give in to the urge – which surely must be unbearable by now – and force that cock inside him? Jopson knew he wanted it; perhaps he had not signaled it clearly enough. "Francis", he whispered, "it's all right. You can put it in."

He heard Crozier heavily breathing behind him, moist against his skin, and it made the fine hair on his nape stand up. He anticipated to feel sweaty, rough fingers to spread his arse cheeks, or perhaps a firm hand holding onto his flank as that impossibly big cock was pushed inside him. Of course, it might hurt at first, but he would be damned if he let that opportunity pass up. "Put it in", he begged.

Crozier's movements picked up pace, and his only response was a moan into the hollow between Jopson's shoulder and neck, and Jopson lost himself in the situation, grasping his own arousal as it came back to life. This was already wonderful all in itself, the other man's solid prick grinding along and over his little hole, and the clear fluid dripping from it providing a most delectable slippery sensation.

He started to move as well, trying and finding a somewhat shaky rhythm along with Crozier. It was not long before he felt him tense and shudder behind him with a low groan.

Sudden wetness spread hotly over Jopson's behind in one copious spurt, followed by another, smaller one; and he knew it was over. He exhaled a breath of relief but also with a trace of disappointment; and for a moment he had the idea to turn around, face Crozier and ask him why on earth he didn't put it in. But he decided against it – there would be plenty of other opportunities. Now it was time to rest for them both.

It felt wet, so wet and sticky and warm, but with Crozier staying so closely pressed against him the bedsheets would be spared for now.

"Sorry, Tom", he mumbled. "I didn't want to hurt you."

"It's all right."

"If you want that, we need to take more time."

"M-hm."

Soon Crozier had surrendered to the exhausting effect of his actions, and was sleeping soundly with regular, low snores, still hugging Jopson from behind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. :D


End file.
